Sherlock Holmes and the Three Doctors
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Watson learns the hard way that One should not travel in time or space without One's carpet slippers.


**This...came out of nowhere. My questionable brain matter decided that the repeat of "doctor" in a few fandoms justified a crossover.**

**As always, for you enjoyment.**

* * *

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was puzzled, which was an unusual occurrence. His brain was like an active, well-oiled machine. It ran even when he did not have a case to investigate or a criminal to pursue. He noticed little details that were irrevocably fashioned into chains of inferences in his mind. A melting stick of butter or a tarnished tie-pin meant more to him than it would to another man.

Therefore it was actually surprising when he awoke on the morning of January 1886 to discover that Watson was missing.

The actual fact that Watson was missing was not the confusing issue, nor that Watson's bed had been slept in and was now empty.

No, Holmes mused as he stared morosely down at Watson's coverlet-which was perfectly situated over the hollow in the middle of the mattress as though the good doctor had literally been plucked out from underneath it—the confusing part was Watson's carpet slippers peeping out from under the edge of the bed.

Watson notoriously (in the Baker Street household) wore his carpet slippers during the winter months. War wounds were not a picnic in the intemperate weather of the British Isles, particularly during the coldest months of the year.

Watson would never have gone anywhere, not even to his wardrobe, without his carpet slippers. England would fall first.

Before Holmes could ponder further on the dilemma it was interupted by a less important, but more alarming issue.

A shower of golden, glowing…_dust motes_ appeared and spun rapidly, solidifying into the forms of two men.

Holmes' mind began to whirl, trying and failing to infer properly. It was a new…and somewhat alarming sensation.

The closest of the intruders turned on Holmes and his eyes sparked dangerously.

"Where is this?"

Perhaps it was his Victorian upbringing, but Holmes thought it presumptuous for this man to materialize unannounced in his house without even knowing _where_ he was interrupting.

"You are in Baker Street." The detective managed, noticing that at the man's belt was an instrument that due to its position on the right hip was most probably a weapon, one that released projectiles judging from its size. The callouses on the man's palm suggested that he was well accustomed to using it. The callouses on his fingers suggested absurd amounts of paperwork and the deeply ingrained crow's feet at his eyes suggested he usually got around four or five hours of sleep a night.

"Baker Street…where?"

"Westminster."

"London, Captain," intoned a deeper voice and Holmes' eyes were drawn to the second man.

This second individual stood just at his 'captain's' shoulder. He was taller and slimmer, but beneath his frame one could sense a wiry strength of the sort that Holmes himself possessed. He too bore a weapon on his hip (in fact their regulated clothing suggested that the men were in uniform). But his hands, unlike the captains, had no callouses whatsoever.

Holmes found himself staring and could not stop or keep his mind from whirring in amazement. No one had perfect hands. Everyone had some sort of callous or mark on their fingers or palms, all save newborn babies and this individual.

"London, England?" the captain exclaimed and glanced about him in consternation, a dark furrow forming on his brow.

The one without callouses took a box hanging at his side, and pressed some buttons. It began to admit a queer whistle. "Our surroundings would suggest earth, late 19th century, Captain. My readings confirm it."

"We've gone through time again," said the captain with a longsuffering sigh. He switched moods rather abruptly and turned back to Holmes, voice sharper than it had been before. "Who are you? What's your name?"

But Holmes had been pushed far enough. "I was planning to ask you that question, and more to the point what exactly are you doing here?"

The second man frowned, "I must have miscalculated, Captain. These are not the coordinates to which Dr. McCoy was sent. We are not only in the wrong time, but the wrong place."

"How could you have made a mistake?" the captain asked, not resentful but genuinely surprised.

The other man peered at the peculiar little box. "There is a similar energy residue here in this room…but it does not appear to be the one that was left behind when the doctor was abducted."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Holmes raised his voice and was ignored.

"Can we still trace Bones?" the captain asked.

In response the man without callouses pulled yet another mysterious instrument from his belt and flipped it open.

The contraption chirped and then spoke in a Scottish brogue. "Scott here."

"Mr. Scott, recalibrate the energy traces and lock us on to the coordinates nearest to Dr. McCoy's departure point."

Following the man's hands and the instrument in them, Holmes' eyes were drawn to the face…and to the ears.

…the gracefully pointed ears.

The man noticed he was under scrutiny. "The sooner the better Mr. Scott."

"Aye, Mr. Spock. Locking onto the coordinates, hold onto your hats."

The dust motes reappeared, encompassing the two strangers without a by-your-leave. The strangers who could appear at will were vanishing, just as Watson had supposedly vanished. They had spoken of abduction.

Holmes made a rather long leap of logic and reached out, taking a hold of the captain's arm.

Baker Street vanished from sight.

Holmes crashed down onto a hard surface, every nerve end tingling like he'd been squashed by a draft horse.

"Neither I, nor the captain are wearing headgear, Mr. Scott."

He was lying by a shiny pair of boots. The world was still spinning wildly as the dust motes disappeared so Holmes latched onto the trousers above the boots.

"Oh no." said a voice from somewhere above him.

They were not in Baker Street anymore, instead there was sand and grit beneath his face. The world was a mix of tepid grays and drab browns, spinning round and round the boots. The strange whistle from the box was filling his ears…

…or maybe that was rushing blood.

He looked upwards to find himself with the full attention of both his strange visitors for the first time. So he had successfully vanished with them. But where to? And who were they? And where was Watson?

"What happened?" he managed without being sick all over the spectacularly shiny boots, and felt quite accomplished, or would have if his stomach would just hold still and let him feel anything aside from nausea.

"I did not expect this," the second man admitted.

The captain was biting his lip.

"Mr. Spock?" the chirping device inquired in its brogue.

"We have transported an additional passenger with us, Mr. Scott. Send him—"

"Wait," the captain interrupted. "Spock."

'Spock' frowned. "We are already risking—"

"He's gonna be sick to his stomach. Give him a minute."

A minute would be sufficient. Holmes shoved the nausea away, released the captain's trousers and rolled himself to a sitting position. "You mentioned that someone had been abducted, a Dr. McCoy." He swallowed with some difficulty, eyes closed in an effort to stop the spinning. "I assume you are searching for him."

The captain dropped to his knees. "What do you know about McCoy?"

Holmes shook his head, regretted it and pushed onwards. "Nothing, however, a friend of mine has also been taken. It is probable that is meaning of the energy you detected in his room. If he and Dr. McCoy have both been kidnapped in a similar manner then surely it is possible they went to the same location."

Silence met this pronouncement, and Holmes cautiously opened an eye.

Both the strangers were peering at him closely.

"Are you sure he's from the 19th century, Spock?"

Spock bent his head to check the whistling box again.

"It is of the utmost importance that I find Watson." Holmes insisted.

The captain exchanged a look with Spock.

"He is exceedingly important to me," the detective admitted. It was unusual for him to be so candid, but this situation was hardly typical. The idea that these strangers might send him back and leave Watson stranded made him more ill than traveling by dust mote.

"Watson?" the captain asked.

"Yes, John Watson. And my name is Sherlock Holmes," he held out a trembling hand for them to shake. Neither of them took it. They gaped at him in the same way he must have gaped at the pointed ears.

*chirp chirp* "Mr. Spock? You want me to send him back, sir?"

The captain shook his head.

"No, Mr. Scott. Stand by, Spock out." Spock closed the device.

The world had stopped spinning and his stomach was settling. Holmes felt his hand grasped and looked into a pair of warm hazel eyes.

"I don't know how it's possible," the captain admitted. "But it's nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. My name is James Kirk."

"Pleasure. I assure you there are any number of things I considered impossible before this morning,"

The captain smiled and indicated the other man. "This is Mr. Spock, my first officer."

"You are in a military?"

"Of a sort." Kirk pulled Holmes to his feet and steadied him when his legs wobbled a little. "If we're going to find our doctors we'd better get moving."

* * *

Whoever owned the compound they were sneaking through, and why they had chosen to position it on a black beach on a remote planet was anyone's guess. Now that they were at their location Spock was able to more clearly detect the energy traces left by whatever device had taken Watson and McCoy. This was apparently not always possible for the whistling box, but in his words the energy was "highly distinctive."

Obviously the owner of the iron fortress thought it was impenetrable because they were easily able to avoid the few guards they found traipsing the halls. The first one they really encountered was standing outside a door…at least Holmes assumed it was a door. It was a little like the ones they had already come through. Sunken into the wall without a handle or hinges, with a little panel beside it.

The guard was slouching against the wall. Clearly nothing of excitement ever happened to him.

Holmes faltered as they approached, but Kirk marched up to him with perfect confidence and Spock followed behind.

The guard straightened and frowned.

Kirk glowered and in a thundery voice demanded. "What are you doing here? Didn't you hear the new orders?"

The guard opened his mouth to protest, looked down the hall and collapsed as Spock's fingers bit through his jacket into his shoulder. Spock caught the boy and courteously lowered him to the floor

"Wonderful," Holmes breathed, stepping up to feel the fallen boy's pulse and saw that he was indeed alive and breathing. "How is that done?"

"With great difficulty," Kirk muttered. He bent to look at the little pad of buttons beside the door. He bit his lip and pushed several of the buttons in quick succession.

With a reluctant hiss the door opened.

The interior was dark and cold, far colder than the hallway.

Kirk went in first and he got no more than a few feet with his weapon in hand when there was a shout.

"JIM!"

A blue torpedo shot from the darkness and into the captain. It was another man, without pointy ears, who wore nearly the same uniform as Mr. Spock. He was older, his face more worried by time and toil. His hair was just starting to grey in the roots near his temples. But his eyes were a vibrant blue and they leaped with energy at the sight of Kirk.

"Jimboy, I knew you wouldn't be far behind me. I'm happy as paint, even to see the hobgoblin here."

Mr. Spock said nothing, but stood close to the newcomer waving his whistling box again.

The blue-eyed man gave him a frown. "Spock, you can't get proper medical readings with that. Stop playing like you're a doctor."

Kirk laughed. "Enough, enough, we don't have time for that. Are you alright, Bones?"

"Yeah, they sure don't mind knocking a fella about here in this part of the galaxy." He turned his head to display a large purple bruise over one cheekbone. "But it wasn't really me they were after."

He noticed Holmes, for the first time. Those eyes widened and looked him up and down from his shoes to his waistcoat to his hairline. "Holy cats, It's you."

He broke away from Kirk and took Holmes' hand pumping it enthusiastically for a moment.

"I really enjoyed reading your books as a kid. Dozed off a couple of times but they passed a lotta happy hours for me."

"I fear I don't know what you are referring to," Holmes said, looking helplessly at Kirk who was still grinning.

"Dr. McCoy is acquainted with some of Dr. Watson's accounts of your investigations," Spock clarified. "I also have read—"

"Shoot we're wasting time and it's all my fault," McCoy growled, worry now clear on his face. "We've gotta get to Watson and that other fella."

"You've met Watson," Holmes seized upon the news. "Is he alright?"

"A little bruised last time I saw him. It's that other boy I'm worried about." McCoy turned to Kirk.

"Jim we've been here three days, Watson and I got here the first day. It was a mistake. They weren't searching for us they were looking for the Doctor."

"Doctor? What Doctor?"

McCoy shrugged "It's what he called himself, _the_ Doctor, like he's the only one. I didn't believe him at first coz the kid looks like he should still be in short pants, shorter than you. He came here the second day, then they came and took him from our cell. When they brought him back he was hurt."

"Bad?"

"Bad, like…Vians bad." McCoy whispered and some of the color drained from Kirk's face.

"Where is he?" Kirk demanded in a terse voice.

"They took him again this morning."

"And Watson went with them." Holmes stated.

McCoy looked at him in apology. "You can't stop that man anymore than you can stop a three-headed Tirigan mule. He thought maybe there would be something he could do if he was on hand."

"He was part of a military campaign when he started practicing," the detective explained. "He feels that he operates best in a field setting. Where did they take him?"

"Down this way," with a glance at Kirk (for permission Holmes supposed) McCoy led the way down one of the halls. "They brought me there at first to test whether I was him, _the_ Doctor. It was like they didn't even know what he looked like."

"So they took you and Watson because they thought you might be him." Holmes fell into pace beside him.

"I can't think of any other explanation. Apparently the best they had to go on was the name Doctor. As if that would narrow it down. Third time's the charm I suppose."

On their way Spock had to put two more guards to sleep, and once Kirk used the little weapon at his belt. It emitted a streak of light that sizzled in the air and set Holmes' hair on end.

McCoy smiled grimly at his surprise. "I never get tired of seeing your type jump at things like that."

"My type?" asked Holmes stiffly.

"From the past." McCoy clarified.

"Have you encountered many of _my type_?" asked Holmes curiously.

"More than you would think. Here we go." McCoy stopped running.

They stood before a small room, that was clinical to the point that it set Holmes' skin to crawling.

He had been to many hospitals and morgues in his own time. He had spent hours studying cadavers. And none of those places gave him the horrible feeling he got at seeing the blank white walls shining behind the glass doors and windows. There were cabinets and tables, all made of the same metallic alloy that gleamed dully in the bright overhead lights.

He crouched beside McCoy in the shadows of the hall and was glad of the presence of the other two who stood at their backs. Strange men, all three of them, but this was an utterly alien situation.

"It isn't ideal for breaking into," he muttered. "They'll see us in the first instant."

"That's okay they won't be expecting us." McCoy turned to Kirk. "He'll have a couple of guards in there with them. The guy who did this isn't keen on risking his neck."

"A couple shouldn't be a problem," Kirk murmured, exchanging a glance with Spock. "Are there any other security measures? Weapons?"

They began to discuss things tactically. In that workmanlike manner of the Yard that Holmes so despised. He did not intend to tone them out, but long habits survive and the need for action drew his attention back to the shining glass before him.

That is how he was the first one to see the body slam into the glass.

He was on his feet before the others looked up, crossing the hall towards the glass. Because that body was familiar and it was hauntingly limp as one of black-uniformed guards grabbed it and hauled it to its feet.

He reached the doors as they moved away and nudged the glass open with his fingers to listen, hidden in the slight shadow of the wall.

"Are you completely useless?"

"Get your hands off of me. I am not only unfamiliar with these instruments, I am handcuffed! How can you possibly expect me to perform in this condition?"

"You claimed you would be able to save him."

"I said I would try to repair some of the damage you have done. He's dying. I can't hold back death."

"Perhaps we should bring the other one in here?"

He heard Watson snarl in anger, and felt his own ire rise at the sound. "If he's still alive in that frozen hole you left us—"

The sound of a blow and Watson cried out. Holmes grasped the handle of the door and he was pushing it open when the lightest brush of fingers on his shoulder stopped him.

The man called Spock, the one with un-calloused hands stood behind him. Holmes had not even heard him approach, something of a feat in itself.

Spock shook his head and motioned him back. Holmes scowled and made to step forward, the fingers on his shoulder tightened with an unexpected strength, and the narrow face seemed to harden at him.

He stopped, quivering with the need to go into that room and stop whatever was happening, to save Watson. He had to fight down an urge to strike the other man, to vent his frustration at the delay.

Holmes released a shuddering breath, lungs clenching on the air even as his fists clenched. It was not just the threat to Watson or the impending danger of their unusual surroundings; he was working with complete unknowns. He could perceive very little here In this sterile environment. It was like being struck blind, and he reacted accordingly.

Those fingers squeezed lightly and Spock shook his head again, an implacable wall of calm.

He subsided, allowing Spock to pull him back away from the door. Kirk and McCoy joined them cautiously from the shadows, crouching down beneath the ledge of the windows.

Kirk was holding his weapon in his hand, he gave Holmes a hard, assessing look then turned his attention back to Spock, apparently satisfied with what he saw.

He nodded, an unspoken signal, and Spock turned to the wall, rubbing his hands together briefly he crouched and pressed his fingertips flat against the cold white surface.

McCoy and Kirk were rapt at the action, but to Holmes it meant nothing. He watched for long moments in growing impatience.

And then the door opened and one of the guards stepped out. the detective would have tackled him if Kirk hadn't grabbed his arm.

The group huddled motionless as the guard walked further into the shadows of the outside hallway and halted. Holmes had only caught a glimpse of the man's face and it had been painfully blank, not suspicious or malevolent or even just bored as he might have expected. The guard was like a wax cylinder that had been wiped clean.

Voices rose from inside the room and another guard stepped out.

"Jenkins? What are you doing?"

Kirk released Holmes and as one the two of them surged forward. Kirk aimed a fist at the individuals face as Holmes dove for his legs. They dropped him like a stone and Holmes gladly made for the doors into the too bright lights that pooled down over a table standing in the center of the room.

A third guard shouted in alarm but McCoy flew at him in a second display of tornadic energy, satisfying the restlessness that had no doubt been festering over several days of imprisonment

There were only three others present, a limp figure on the table, and a man who would have been imposing if he hadn't been so beefy, half-throttling Watson with a hand in his collar.

Watson was struggling gamefully, but days of little or no food and exhaustion had gotten to him. There were lines in his face that only appeared on exceedingly cold days, when he ceased to write in his journal and rubbed at his shoulder instead.

Holmes noted that the floor was very slick as he tore around the table tore into the pair of them, knocking the brute over and jamming an elbow into something soft as Watson stumbled. He caught his doctor, pulling him aside as the other three joined them. Kirk and Spock had their strange weapons drawn. McCoy stopped by the table.

"Well," said Kirk, with some satisfaction. "I don't know your name." He smiled as the beefy man pushed himself away from the wall, putting his ample stomach within close range of the strange gun the captain held. "But I'm sure going to take pleasure in seeing it buried away in a great mountain of Starfleet paperwork."

"Watson," McCoy called from the table. "Are you okay?"

Watson turned to face him, breaking his unconscious grip on Holmes' forearm.

"Yes…yes I'm alright." He breathed, trying to grasp what had just happened.

"Well then get over here and help me with this." Was the clipped reply and Holmes attention was also drawn towards the table.

Watson left him, hobbling towards the metal monstrosity

It did not take a doctor or a detective to understand McCoy's alarm.

The individual on the table was still in one piece…but not much else could be said for him. The remains of clothing masked whatever damage he was suffering, all a mess of rust red. A chest rose up and down shallowly.

Watson swore, employing his good Hindustani curses and pressed his fingers to the injured man's neck.

"Is that good?" he asked McCoy. The other doctor took a limp wrist between his own fingers and shook his head irritably. "How am I supposed to know that? I don't even know what species he is. And even green blood looks more normal to me than this."

"Green?" Watson questioned, pushing aside the limp hair covering his patient's forehead. He _was_ young, Holmes saw. His face was far more childish than his stature would dictate. If the man tried to grow a beard it would probably have been a bedraggled wispy thing.

The poor wretch shuddered under Watson's touch and his eyelids flickered.

"I think he's trying to speak," Watson said as pale lips moved, he leaned in closer. McCoy muttered and cursed under his breath, trying to stifle the wounds with shreds of what looked to be a tweed jacket.

Kirk was busy trying to interrogate their captor-now captive; Spock was slowly making rounds of the room, keeping one eye on the captain and one eye on the door. The beefy individual looked unrepentant, rubbing idly at his arm as though in anticipation of the cuffs that would soon grace them, Holmes would gladly place them there himself.

"McCoy I would appreciate it if you would be silent for a moment he's saying something," Watson had his ear bent to listen to the dying man's breaths. McCoy grudgingly slowed his rather useless ministrations.

Two things happened then almost simultaneously. The wretch on the bed seemed to gain a bit of strength. His eyes snapped open and his hand touched Watson's face. Watson gasped in alarm and Holmes stepped towards him only to halt as chaos erupted across the room.

Kirk and Spock had dropped their weapons; they lay useless and smoking on the floor. A sound rose, a high pitched shriek that Holmes realized with alarm was coming from the other devices slung on their belts. As the noise rose and became too much, the contraptions burst apart in painful-looking showers of sparks. The captain and his officer fell back, flinging their arms up to protect their face s.

The beefy individual chuckled and Holmes saw that he had stopped chaffing his wrists and instead was pressing steadily on what might have been a bracelet, save for the dials, lights and buttons adorning it.

The villain released the button and pressed yet another. Alarm bells began to wail through the halls of the compound.

McCoy was shouting something and pulling Watson away from the table. Spock staggered to his feet and dragged Kirk to his.

"Communicator." The captain reached blindly for the device at his belt that now lay upon the floor, blackened but no longer shooting sparks. Smoke was filling the room.

Holmes knelt and snatched it up, he flipped it open as he had seen them do and shouted into it. "Mr. Scott?"

There was no chirp or answering brogue. The contraption was well and truly dead.

"We must find another way." Spock was grasping his arm and yanking him to his feet. Holmes looked for Watson and found him grappling with McCoy.

"Help me lift him."

"If we move him we'll kill him."

"You think they'll save him here?" Watson's voice broke in desperation. He wrenched free and pulled the now motionless body into his arms, dragging it clear of the table.

"You crazy sonofagun!" McCoy caught the Doctor's gangly legs before they could hit the ground.

"Run if you wish," said their beefy captor, leisurely strolling to yet more unknown electronic boxes and flashing lights in a corner. "You will be shot before you go far."

"I suggest, Captain, that you go first while I bring up the rear." Suggested Spock and Kirk nodded, pushing the doors open.

It was a mad rush, smoke poured out the doors with them, swiftly filling the corridor. Kirk paused to snatch up one of the guard's weapons and dispatched one or two who poked their heads into the corridor.

There was a shout from behind. Three men emerged from the smoke and the disturbing red lights of the alarm overhead. They sped up and the first to reach them met with Holmes' fist. Spock dispatched him and turned to meet the second, throwing him over his shoulder and into a wall.

The third dropped to his knees and fired his weapon.

There was a whine and flash of light, and a sharp pain at Holmes' side. It was nothing like the last time he'd been shot. There was no numbing impact…just a fiery bite that made him cry out and spurred him to run faster, like a whip.

Kirk fired back and his aim was impeccable, taking out the last man. They staggered a few more corridors before McCoy called our hoarsely. "Jim! We can't keep this up!"

As if to illustrate his point the corridor before them bristled with soldiers.

They skidded to a stop.

"We don't have to." Watson gasped, even as their hearts fell. "This is the right corridor." He turned left, dragging the limp body of the young man and McCoy with him. There was indeed a turn off to their left, but it seemed too narrow to be a main corridor. Holmes followed, feeling too much in pain and befuddled with emotions to object, and sensed Spock and Kirk Scramble after him, firing shots as they came.

"Whaddya mean it's 'the right corridor'?" growled McCoy, practically holding up the other two and then he must have seen what Holmes was seeing. There was another light shining dimly ahead of them, not read or blaring white like in the medical room before. This light was soft and distant, like gaslight in a fog.

Before them materialized an incongruous structure that was just as alien as everything else but that clearly did not belong here anymore than Holmes did.

It was blue and tall and the light came from windows in a door above a sign that read 'police'.

McCoy saw it and visibly wilted, cursing under his breath with renewed vigor. Aside from the box it was a clear and definite dead end.

Spock and Kirk drew up beside them. Kirk hissed anxiously between his teeth and glanced back the way they has come.

Watson was losing his grip and his balance all at once and Holmes stepped up quickly to grasp beneath his shoulders, holding him up. He realized belatedly that his friend was dressed in nothing but his nightclothes and dressing gown as though he really had been snatched from his bed.

Holmes laughed softly, comforted at the end, even the end of the universe, by this show of Watson's personality. Even so improperly attired Watson behaved like he had his boots on.

"I'm sorry dear fellow."

Watson shook his head, still gasping for breath. "Don't be. This is it. It has to be."

Holmes looked up at the strange box.

"It is a closet, Watson."

"He put it in my head." The edges of Watson's composure wavered under growing desperation. "He showed me where it was."

"Watson…"

"It is larger inside."

This clear statement, delivered in Watson's unraveling voice, drew all their attentions.

Spock had one hand pressed against the box. And though the man had not displayed an emotion yet, his eyes seemed to spark with some keenness…rather like Mycroft when presented with a folder on international affairs.

The man with the pointed ears looked at Kirk. "He is correct, Captain."

Footsteps grew to a resounding thunder behind Kirk and a mass of armed men came into view.

"Then let's go inside, Mr. Spock," said Kirk as bolts of light began to shower around them. Most of them must have hit, because Holmes felt more sharp fires rip through his clothes and smelt burning cloth and flesh. The doors of the blue structure gave away before Spock and they toppled inside.

The doors closed on Kirk's boot-heels with a snap.

A breath…two…three. All was peaceful and—after the blaring alarms—blessedly silent.

They lay in a mass before the doors and Holmes became aware that his cheek was pressed to a smooth, clean surface, too warm to be metallic.

Soft, nursery lights twinkled at the edge of his vision. He kept his hand fisted in Watson's collar and raised his head.

They were inside a cavern of a room. It was dim and shining. Darkling eyes glittered out of roundels in the walls. Stairs and passages branched off to unseen rooms and in the center stood a great glass platform that seemed to hum.

"It's bigger on the inside," gasped McCoy.

"I believe I already said that," said Spock but he too was gazing around at the room with his mouth partly open. He reached out and gingerly touched the wall. His eyebrows shot up into his smooth hairline and he pulled back.

"What's wrong?" asked Kirk.

The first officer visibly composed himself, rolling his shoulders as though to fit them to a more comfortable position in his skin.

"I am not certain."

"Well come over here and help me with the door." The captain had his back pressed against the two doors, bracing them shut. The faint sounds of the guns still reached them from outside.

"I don't think they can get in," Watson interrupted, and all eyes turned to scrutinize him.

Watson, in his torn nightclothes and several days stubble grown on his chin, looked nothing less than a madman. His hair stood on end as he ran a shaking hand through it seeking to explain to his unexpected audience.

"He did something, touched my head and…and he spoke. I could hear him in my head." The dear man's voice shook and he seemed to be on the verge of doubting his own sanity.

Holmes tightened his grip on his friend's collar. Watson had yet to acknowledge or even really to look at him. How could he offer any sort of comfort or solid ground when he felt just as lost in this madcap world that had opened up beneath them?

It was Kirk who headed off the hysteria, holding up his hand and meeting Watson's eyes steadily.

"it makes perfect sense. Mr. Spock has a similar talent, Dr. Watson. Tell me what happened." He spoke in a professional, calming manner; as though he were accustomed to putting out fires among frantic men.

Watson let out a shuddering breath, shaking beneath Holmes' hands.

"He spoke in my head. He showed me the way to this box and told me…I _felt_ as though it would be safe. I am under the impression that they cannot get through that door."

Kirk nodded turning to his first officer. "Is the Doctor a telepath, Spock?"

"I do not know," Spock admitted, "I haven't had a chance to examine him."

"And you won't get a chance if we don't hurry," McCoy snapped. He was crouched over the injured boy on the floor. "Watson…Do you feel up to helping me?"

"I have no way of describing." But Watson was already squaring his shoulders, blanking his face, dragging strength up from some unseen well as though he were still 26 and covered in the dust of Afghanistan.

Holmes released him as _his_ doctor crawled to McCoy's side looking over the patient.

The blue eyes dimmed, the moustache seemed to droop as the mouth drew into a grim line. "He's going to die."

"Maybe, but he's not dead yet," McCoy turned to his captain. "Jim, we need to find out what exactly this box is, and if we can get outta here. I can't treat him without my equipment."

"The communicators were toasted," Kirk mourned. Abandoning the door and getting to his feet. "We can't contact the ship, and I don't see a way out of here."

"Ship?" Holmes found himself questioning. There were so many things that needed to be answered and that he needed data for, but obviously their immediate concerns took precedence. He did not like the disheartened look in Watson's eyes. If his friend lost this bizarre patient, one he had been holding onto in that frozen cell for the last two days, Watson would inevitably worsen. They had to save this stranger if only for that reason.

Kirk hesitated over his question. "Well….when we say ship…"

"Obviously some form of conveyance, technological in nature like your 'communicators' were?"

The captain scratched the back of his neck. "Well they're newer models than the ship."

"But there are similar amazing contraptions that enable you to travel…in this time now? Wherever we are?" Holmes tried to establish, impatiently.

"Yes," said Spock with gladdening promptness.

"Wonderful," Holmes muttered, shoving himself to his feet. He now had a basis on which to expostulate. And their surroundings were very suggestive. "Obviously this cupboard in which we find ourselves belongs to this Doctor."

"Yes," said Spock again. "It does not belong to the place we just came from."

"Precisely," Holmes jabbed a happy finger in Spock's direction and made his way away from the rest of the group towards the glass dais he had observed earlier. In its center was a miraculous pillar he could not begin to comprehend. It was surrounded by boards of controls. Blinking lights, dials and switches dazzled his poor befuddled brain. They reminded him of the little devices that had been on the officer's belts.

He reached out one hand, touched the boards lightly, and when they did not explode he turned to his companions. "I think it safe to say that _this_ is the Doctor's ship. It moved here, somehow, because as you say, Mr. Spock, it is not native to the surroundings outside. Therefore it moved here by some means. Surely these are its controls."

"I would agree," said Spock.

"Then if it is a vessel meant for extended travel shouldn't it have a…a medical wing of some sort?" Holmes told him. "It's certainly big enough."

McCoy huffed. "Makes sense, to me. You say you're from what century again?"

"We've discussed that." Holmes stalked back towards them. "And it seems to me you should be more concerned with your patient."

"You don't need to start lecturing me about medical procedures. Unsystematic anatomy is all you're qualified in, that and detection. If you're head really is that much bigger on the inside why don't you and Spock combine forces and discover this proverbial medical bay?"

"Theoretical," corrected Spock. "Proverbial would entail—"

"_Jim!"_

"Right," Kirk motioned to Spock who took a few tentative steps towards Holmes. "Spock, let's see what we can make of the controls. Maybe there's some sort of directive agent, or at least a computer."

The officers joined Holmes on the glass platform. Kirk's face fell when he drew near enough to really see the hodgepodge of controls.

"A bit of a mess, Captain," Spock observed, to which Kirk sadly nodded.

"I don't even know where to begin with this. Dr. Watson?" He called back and both medics looked up from their patient. "Did he put anything in your mind about _using_ his ship?"

"I fear not," Watson muttered, still hesitant over discussing the matter. He was simultaneously staunching a cut on the Doctor's arm.

"You have nothing like this in your own vessel?" Holmes asked. The controls did look insane, but so far everything about this new century seemed mad to him.

"Only in engineering," Kirk muttered. He tweaked one of the levers and the ship rattled, but nothing more. He cleared his throat and in his command voice spoke to the center pillar. "Computer."

There was no response save the curious look that Holmes sent him.

"There's not even a central control system. Can you make anything of it Spock?"

Spock was frowning in concentration (one of the few expressions he seemed to make). He had yet to actually touch the controls.

"Logically—no. it does not adhere to any rules that I can see. However, there may be a way that I can communicate with it."

Kirk looked at him sharply. "Can you be clearer than that, first officer?"

Spock cleared his throat, breaking out of some reverie. "I believe this ship may in fact be sentient, Captain."

Kirk's eyes widened. "Sentient?"

"That would explain the lack of order and utility." He waved a hand at the controls as though to say 'as you can clearly see'.

"A sentient ship," Kirk muttered. "That wouldn't be the strangest thing we've ever seen. Is that what happened earlier, Spock? When you touched the wall?"

Spock nodded, still frowning.

"And would you be willing to try and communicate with it?"

The frown gained a serious edge. "I did not detect any malevolence before, Captain. Whatever this craft is it seems to be benign. And time is of the essence." He rubbed his hands together and Kirk drew back as though to grant him space.

"Be careful."

Spock stepped up to the controls, let his hands hover over them for a long moment and then set his fingertips against the central pillar and one of the boards. He closed his eyes.

Holmes watched in bemusement. In another life…the life that had made sense until seven that morning he would have called this ridiculous, a pantomime of children or madmen playing out the roles of their own deluded world. Now he shut his mouth and sidled over to Kirk before inquiring. "Does he mean that this ship is in fact alive?"

Kirk nodded, watching the odd ritual as another might contemplate a religious service.

"That's impossible," Holmes muttered. Somehow, after everything he'd seen, _this_ was just a little too hard to swallow. Machines were made of metal and ran on steam, clockwork, or another type of force. They had no will or drive of their own.

The captain smirked. "There were a number of things you considered impossible before this morning,"

Holmes fell quiet, watching as the frown dropped from Spock's face. The man seemed to relax by degrees too gradual to calculate, until he was leaning casually against the console. His face had become as placid as a child's in sleep and Holmes was growing impatient when he at last broke away from the controls and blinked about him dazedly.

"Spock?" Kirk inquired anxiously.

His officer's eyes focused and he straightened. "It is…she is a very complex mental structure." He said.

Kirk tried not to smile. "_She_, Spock?"

"She seems to be under the impression that she is female."

"Enough of that," growled, McCoy over Holmes' skepticism and Kirk's repressed mirth. "Did she tell you where the med-bay is?"

"She will bring it to us," Spock said, leading the way off the platform and towards one of the side passages. "I could be mistaken, it was difficult to comprehend, but it will most probably be on the left."

"She'll what?"

"Never mind," McCoy muttered, obviously dismissing Spock's directions as the ramblings of a too-advanced mind. "Captain, you and Mr. Holmes come and lift this fella, and Spock you show us where this place 'on the left' is."

The Doctor was astonishingly dense for such a skinny chap. It took the combined efforts of Kirk and Holmes to lift him without jarring him around. They kept him as level as possible but McCoy still hovered anxiously, snapping at them if they misplaced a step.

They turned left and quite abruptly found themselves in the most bizarre room Holmes had ever seen and that counted the one they had just come from.

It was round and lined with shelves and cabinets. A long sort of counter sat in the middle and around the walls stood what looked to be a collection of brass bedsteads and platforms that Holmes assumed were beds due to the blankets and pillows piled atop them. Chairs had been stuffed into corners, with small tables and lamps. In one corner of the ceiling floated a number objects that Holmes realized were balloons. They were far more colorful and buoyant than the variety in his day, if slightly wilted looking.

One sadly deflated balloon, with the words "Get Well Soon" stamped across its' front, floated down and bumped into Spock's immaculate head as though in greeting.

"Put him over here," instructed McCoy, selecting one of the more modern (and thus more bizarre) looking beds. "Watson you see how comfortable you can make him. I'll go rummage through the cabinets. You think they'd have a bio-scanner in a place this flea-markety."

Holmes retreated to one of the chairs stuffed into a corner. It was leather and wonderfully unindicative of anything else. The table next to it was covered in magazines that he did not even dare to contemplate.

Kirk joined him, sitting on one of the brass bed sets and bouncing slightly to feel the mattress.

"You know, Mr. Holmes, as unlikely as it might seem to you," Kirk smiled at him "this is a very strange day for us too."

* * *

Holmes was broken out of a stupor hours later when the lights of the room were dimmed and the soft hum of the ship had long since sunk into his subconscious. Kirk and Spock had gone to explore more of the ship. Holmes had remained to step in and help during the moments when Watson was simply too exhausted to assist Dr. McCoy.

A firm hand touched his shoulder and he looked up to see a familiar face.

It was made more familiar and welcome by the radiant relief upon it.

"McCoy agrees he'll live." Watson muttered, practically falling upon the springy mattress of the brass bed. "Either way it's over. We've done all we can and much more than I thought we could. It's all a matter of rest now. Astonishing that several hundred years in the future the primary method of recovery remains the same."

"Several hundred?" Holmes asked bunching up his brows at his friend.

"That is the impression I get," Watson muttered. "McCoy and the Doctor did not seem to be able to agree upon a date. It's certainly not our backyard is it?"

"Most assuredly not," Holmes watched his friend carefully. Watson seemed to have passed the state of sheer exhaustion and was hovering in the limbo between cocaine binge and ethereal intangibility. He might have been translucent with how faded he seemed. "And you have been in this delusion far longer than I."

"Yes." The good doctor nodded heavily. "I still cannot believe it's real. At least I couldn't until I saw you. Even you aren't mad enough to tolerate this unless it is reality. I can't tell anymore…"

He buried face in his hand and rubbed at his temples.

"Sometimes in that dark hole I was quite certain the whole thing was just a nightmare and that I should awake at any moment in Baker Street. "

"My dear fellow…"Holmes touched his friend's shoulder in turn.

"I'm alright. Truly." Watson said, but did not raise his head. "I am glad to see you, Holmes. I was quite certain I would not ever see you again."

That was a blow to hear. One that Watson should have been driven to such depths of despair and still insist he was alright in that stoic way of his. And two that he had not expected Holmes to save him, not at the edge of whatever universe they occupied.

"I came for you just as I shall always come for you," Holmes said.

Watson nodded. "I'm so very glad you're here." He whispered, face resting in his hands.

And that is where he fell asleep, still perched on the edge of the mattress until Holmes settled him gently beneath the covers.

* * *

As was often the case, Holmes was the first awake.

The ship did not seem to have a cycle of day and night. Not a normal one at any rate. The ship was still quiet and dark when he woke on the overstuffed leather chair. McCoy (just as exhausted as Watson) was sleeping in a bed near his patient. Kirk was sprawled on another nearby, and Spock sat cross-legged on another, more Spartan chair, eyes closed when he had apparently intended to stand guard.

Perhaps the ship had finally lulled him into resting?

Shaking that bizarre thought, wherever it had come from. Holmes looked to Watson to reassure himself that his friend was still blissfully snoring like the old campaigner he was.

Then restless from resting too long, he left the chair and wandered over to the bed that held the chap called the Doctor.

McCoy or Watson, had covered him in a rather ugly orange blanket that cloaked him from chin to toes. But his face was unobscured.

The young man was homely. He had an overlarge chin, nose and forehead. The whole effect made his eyes look rather small and sunken. A flop of brown hair adorned his head. As the detective came to his bedside his eyes opened and stopped Holmes in his tracks.

They were brown, but the color was not what made the detective pause. They seemed to be deeper. Not just sunken, but with depths that would be hard to measure, as though they could be traced backwards without an end or a limit.

The man blinked and the effect was muted. His eyes widened as he took in the chaotic sick room.

"Hullo." He said uncertainly.

Holmes' nodded. "I would say 'good morning' but I'm afraid I don't know what time it is."

The Doctor looked about him some more. "Well that's odd. Usually the old girl's better at keeping a clock or two around. Been a while since we used this room though."

"You've been ill," Holmes informed him helpfully. He was never very good with ill people. It was one of the many ways in which Watson was so useful to him. Unfortunately the good doctor was enjoying a well-earned rest on the opposite side of the room.

"I wouldn't like to be in here if I wasn't…in fact I wouldn't like to be in here even if I was either. I don't know anyone who would. Must be rubbish being a real doctor, hanging around in hospitals all the time." His voice was a little breathless, but he seemed alert enough. All rambling aside.

"I thought you were a doctor."

"Doctor's what I'm called," the man said. He closed his eyes with a weary sigh. "Still don't know why."

"Usually 'doctor' is a title that you earn." Holmes informed him.

"Well I'm not sure I've done that," The Doctor said. He dredged one of his hands out of the orange monstrosity and offered it to Holmes.

Holmes took the hand and shook it. "My name is Holmes."

The Doctor smiled amiably. "Are you really?" he closed his eyes again, grew still, almost seemed to fall asleep.

The eyes snapped open again, making Holmes jump.

"Where is Watson?" he demanded. "He was in that room with me, with that thoroughly unpleasant paunch of a villain."

"Watson is sleeping." Holmes informed him, trying to press the Doctor down onto the mattress, (something proper doctors constantly seemed to do). The young man ignored his hand and sat up further.

The Doctor looked at him properly as though for the first time. "You're Sherlock Holmes. Do you know that in 700 years of space travel I've never once managed to land in Baker Street?"

"With your ship?"

The Doctor grinned. "She's wonderful isn't she?"

"I don't believe your ship is female."

"Well you're wrong. I've seen her. My giddy aunt what's wrong with me?" he sat up all the way, revealing an abysmally skinny chest. His head ended up in his hands, clutching his forehead.

"Watson could tell you better than I," Holmes admitted, supporting him. "How do you feel?" another question doctor's frequently seemed to apply.

"Dizzy," the Doctor muttered, rubbing his forehead briskly. "I don't like to think about what happened. I don't think I will. Have we taken off?"

"We couldn't understand your ship's controls."

The doctor groaned, "Not even Sherlock Holmes can drive the TARDIS? I don't know whether to be disappointed or totally unsurprised. Oh I must be off, I'm having apple cravings again. Well don't just stand there like a lump, Sherlock Holmes. Make yourself useful and help me up."

He wavered forward, using Holmes like a prop when he tried to restrain him. "Thanks very much."

"I really don't think you should be getting up yet." Holmes was sympathetic, but the way the Doctor was wobbling like a stack of jelly it seemed like a bad idea.

"I want to check on Watson and McCoy." He growled and commandeered Holmes' shoulder, lolloping his way across the room to stop briefly at the other occupied beds.

He paused in front of Spock's chair.

"Who is that?"

"Mr. Spock," Holmes supplied.

"Is he a Vulcan?" the Doctor said with a grin. He leaned forward.

"A what?" Holmes asked.

"You know, Vulcan, the whole," he drew his fingers to a point from one of his ears. "I haven't met any for at least two hundred years. Quite possibly the best minds in the universe. If a bit dull. A lot of the most brilliant ones are also the stuffiest, I should know."

He smiled at Holmes, who was feeling understandably befuddled.

The smile dropped to surprise. "No, that's right. You don't know. You've never met one before. You've never been away from earth or the 1800's in your entire life. This is the first time you're seeing any of it!"

He looked Holmes' up and down and the grin re-emerged. "And look how well you're handling it! That poor brain of yours must be spinning like a top but you're still on your feet. Oh good for you!"

Holmes who disliked being condescended to possibly more than anything else in the world crossed his arms and frowned. "A Vulcan, you say?"

"From the planet, Vulcan, orbiting the star closest to your sun. Earth won't meet them for a while yet. You get a sneak peek, Sherlock Holmes."

Space travel? The concept had lain dormant in his mind for a few hours now. Some part of his brain clinging to sanity hadn't allowed it to fully emerge.

"What about Kirk and McCoy?" Holmes motioned to the other two. "Are they from…from earth?"

"Yes they are. Your descendents…well not _your_ direct descendants. But you come from the same gene pool, yeah."

"And what about you?" Holmes had seen the vivid splashes of blood on the Doctor before. The same stains that now adorned Watson's ruined clothes and McCoy's uniform, far too rusty to be a proper human red.

"I'm from much further away," the Doctor said. "Earth won't meet my people ever. Well sometimes, but very rarely."

"Why?" Holmes asked, claiming a seat on the bed as his legs felt a little unsteady. "You're obviously powerful enough. This ship is astonishing."

"Thank you. We're not supposed to interfere. What with time travel and it gets very messy very quickly."

"And you are the exception to that rule?"

The Doctor smirked obviously pleased that his guest had caught on so quickly. "I'm the exception to every rule. Come on."

He pushed himself away from the bed towards the door and would have fallen if Holmes hadn't caught him.

"Where on earth do you think you're going?" Holmes growled, wrapping his arms around the ridiculous madman, somehow avoiding his gangly limbs.

"Actually I was thinking somewhere a bit more distant." The Doctor said, directing them in a veer down the corridor back into the room and to the console.

The lights brightened instantly and a loud hum filled the room as the Doctor…Yes he was definitely _stroking_ the ship.

He looked at Holmes with those unnerving, depthless eyes. "Unless I'm boring you. You can go back and kip in the sickbay if you prefer."

"Do you know what you're doing?" Holmes asked as switches were pulled and dials tweaked.

The ship rumbled, the floor vibrated wildly beneath them and a wheezing rush of noise and air echoed in the cavern above their heads.

"I'm fairly sure," the Doctor replied. "I've been doing it for a while now. Might want to hold onto something though."

Holmes tumbled backwards into some railing and held on for all he was worth.

Funny, even now after Watson had been rescued.

He was more puzzled than before.

* * *

**Methinks Spock and the Tardis could have several interesting conversations. Maybe swap stories about their respectively insane captains over milk and cookies.**


End file.
